Master and Servant
by Kagerou-chan
Summary: Wandering the Narrows, completely insane, Crane is collected by a League Of Shadows member with plans of his own for him. Craneslash.
1. Chapter 1: Nightfall

Chapter 1: Nightfall

_Summer prays that she could be rain_

_And the car crash left you for the blame_

_And nightfall_

_Brought your demons and evil arcade_

_- "California," Loudermilk_

Down a damp alley in the heart of the Narrows, Jonathan Crane wakes from a nightmare.

The left half of his face burns while the right half freezes, and he touches his cheek in vague remembrance. But only bits and pieces come to him; images of the Bat-man; a fearsome dark face that seems strangely familiar; and that woman…what was her name? Rachel…something. It eludes him. But he knows that she was responsible for the pain, but the Bat-man was responsible for everything else.

Footsteps echo down the alley, and he flees up the fire escape, fear nipping at his heels, unaware and uncaring of their owners' identities. From the top of the building he crouches to see, and through the wisps of fog he can see they wear the badge of the Gotham City Police Department.

The fog circles lazily around the building, taunting him. He cringes in fear, his shattered memories of no help, just the all-encompassing dread. He buries his head under his arms, willing it to go away, but it reaches the spot where he crouches, and his broken mind is further bent by fear.

_Shapes loom in the sky, winged and fanged like hellish people, to crowd around him. They prod him until he twitches, and they giggle maliciously, like sandpaper on steel. One of them is huge and muscular and black, the leader, and this one rakes claws across his face, and he screams, blood dripping profusely from them as they leave his skin. He doesn't know what will happen, only that in the back of his mind, something is empty like a gaping wound, and that pains him further. The demon leader laughs this time, low and full of sadistic amusement. But he only cowers, and soon they leave him for more interesting prey._

His vision is blurry and he experimentally brushes his face with fingers. It still freezes and burns, but there is no blood. In the night sky he can barely recognize the moon in its bloody hue, and then something obscures the sky, like a dark angel, and swoops down. He hears a screeching crash like the world falling apart at its seams, and he thinks he can see a huge dark shadow like a demon in the sky, howling its rage. He shudders, and buries his face in his arms again, until he hears more footsteps. They are lighter than the police, and there are more of them. He imagines a horde of winged demons, and flees across the rooftop and down the other side, the straps of his straightjacket flapping against his body, rapid and surefooted in desperation.

The next alley is a dead end, damp and dim, filled with the unnatural fog, and he runs faster from this than anything. Finally, a familiar shape looms before him. Arkham is in desolate shambles, but it looks like the cops have been and gone, and there is no one around.

Within it he finds his old office, dusty and damp, but fogless, and with a lock on the door. He curls up in a creaky leather chair, and probes that gaping wound in his mind. There is a residue around it that speaks of confidence, of malice, of a secret desire, but of what it is, and where it has gone, he can only guess. Under the guise of sleep, which he knows won't come, he waits for dawn.

_--_

_It is noon now, lunchtime, but Jonathan Crane does not have time or money to spare for it. He scribbles furious notes in his notebook, awaiting the last period of the day, Psychology, with relish. He knows he's behind in Literature, but doesn't mind much, because today they are going to do something extremely rare in Psych today. _

_They're going to give a full mental examination._

_He knows there isn't much to be had from a "normal" mind, but he still hopes for an interesting exam, if only to say that he found something no one else had. The bell rings once, signaling the beginning of the next class, and he makes his way over to Lit a little disappointed, but mostly expectant._

_The class goes by without incident, but for a few missed assignments. Today they begin reading Tolstoy's Once and Future King, which would have been mildly interesting had he nothing better to do. But as it was, he only half-heartedly began reading, one ear open for the bell. When it came, he allowed himself a smile, small, quiet, and reclusive. He shoved his books in his bag and walked as fast as he dared to Psych._

_Once in class he takes his seat and waits expectantly. The teacher, Mr. Roberts, a mousy-haired thirtysomething, gives him a smile. Jonathan is one of his best students, always ready to learn and eager to do well. They like that in college._

_Finally, everyone is in their seat and M. Roberts can begin._

"_Hello, class. I'm sure many of you are very excited about today's foray in a true medical examination." Roberts' eyes flick to Jonathan, who stares back intently. "I am proud to say that everything is going to go as planned. Here are everyone's partners."_

_Almost rigid with excitement, Jonathan watched as the people before him paired up. "Crane and Harold."_

_He stood, and his eyes flicked to a black-haired boy of about twenty-two. He was of medium height and skinny, but not stick-thin and gangly like Jonathan. His eyes were his most remarkable feature: bright green in a face tanned from the sun. They knew each other vaguely from previous assignments, but this assignment would prove to get them better acquainted._

_"Hi, Jon." The boy had an easy smile, a winning aspect with the ladies._

_"Hello, James."_

_"There's no need to be so formal! It's only Psych class. Feel free to call me Jim."_

_Inwardly Jonathan sighed. Another boy destined to be 'Jim' until he died. Some nicknames would do better to be forgotten. But he obliged Jim, after all, what's in a name? They had a Psych exam instead._

_A packet was being passed around, exhibiting all the steps one should use in a mental exam. Early symptoms of mental disorders, personality type. Normal._

_They begin with introverted/extroverted. Not surprisingly, Jonathan was the former, James the latter. Next they studied personality traits, such as talkativeness, average mood, and honesty. No surprise there either. But as they progressed, James seemed to get a little edgier each time, until they came to mental disorders. Schizophrenia, it seemed, ran in his family. His father had a severe case of it until he died at age fifty-two. Apparently James was deathly afraid of having the sickness himself. He stood up to leave, but Jonathan grabbed his hand. "Wait," he whispered. "If you run from this, yo7u'll never be able to face it again." James glared at him. "Let me go, Crane."_

_"What if I said no?"_

_"Then you'd be real ass, wouldn't you?"_

_Something in the back of Jonathan's head gave him the confidence to make James stay. Keep him here, it said, let me handle it. Reluctantly, Jonathan let go of his inhibitions._

_"Stay here, James. I'll help you get through it."_

_Not wanting to attract attention, but fearful of what staying meant, James was rooted to the spot. "Harold, what are you doing? Finish the exam, and then you can leave." Jonathan silently praised Mr. Roberts, then wasn't sure why._

_"All right, Crane." James took his seat. No more nicknames from that one, Jonathan smiled as he thought._

_Luckily for him, James had no trace of schizophrenia. His mother's side had none, only his dad's, and it seems his mother's side won out that battle._

_After school that day, the little voice in the back of his head was no longer there, and Jonathan wondered when it would come back. It gave him the chance to break out of his shell._

Shaking his head as if from a dream, Jonathan wakes from this memory like swimming out from a dream. He wonders what it was he felt, that time long ago, then from the shores of his memory, a name surfaces.

_Scarecrow._

_--_

With a wolfish grin, Freyr Archis set fire to another empty Narrows building.

After Ra's al Ghul's fiery death, most of the League of Shadows had dispersed with the fog as the antidote was administered to the winds. But Freyr knew that someone, somewhere, knew how to make up for all the lost time. Earlier, he had heard from the police that many of the escaped Arkham inmates, including Dr. Crane, had not been found yet. He now set his focus to finding him, because, he knew, if he captured the master of Fear, the city would not stand any longer.

Overhead, black rain clouds obscured the moon, sending down a torrent of cleansing rain to wash away the rest of the fog. Freyr sighed. He would quite have liked to see another person break under the fog's grasp, but knows it wouldn't have happened anyway. There was no one left in the Narrows to break, except those already broken. After all, Dr. Crane had done a very thorough job. That's why he was the top of his game.

Freyr pulled on his vinyl jacket and began searching anew. The flames of the building puttered under the rain's onslaught, and then went out.

**Author's Note**

Indeed, this is my one and only fic so far. I hope everyone enjoys it, I felt that the Cranefics were slightly lacking in yaoi. Or, at least, an entire story based on it. Rated M for non-explicit sex (later), S&M, and language. I am so stoked! Please, if you enjoy this, constructive criticism and praise welcome. :D


	2. Chapter 2: Man of Shadows

Chapter 2: Man of Shadows

_The man of shadows thinks in clay _

-- "Mask," Bauhaus

During the briefing before the attack on Gotham, Ra's al Ghul had specified one thing about the Bat that can be used against him: While the Bat focuses on firstly on theatricality and secondly on deception, the League of Shadows can turn this around. Less theatricality, more deception. Before they can out-disguise the Bat, they must first become that which they blend with: shadows and dust. Though this is not an all-together _new_ technique, they have been taught how to use it differently than Batman.

It is by using these tactics that Freyr Archis intends to find Dr. Crane. If one cannot find an untrained almost-civilian using the new tactics, there is no hope for finding Batman. He began on the outskirts of the Narrows, and worked his way in; previously burning each building as he finished, until the rain set in.

At the moment his two partners are gone, searching elsewhere for something interesting, as he stands there in the rain, musing to himself. Freyr smiles that wicked smile, and saunters down another alley searching for his quarry.

--

In the depths of Arkham, Jonathan Crane dreams feverish dreams, though the fear gas has long since washed away.

Outside a crow flies by, croaking a warning. A heavy object cracks against the door, and shudders violently, and then caves in. Crane has already backed up against the wall; his only weapon a pocketknife.

A hand reaches for his arm, and he slashes back violently. Hesitation, and then all he sees is black stars, and his blood crashing waves in his head. Through them he hears a man's voice, commanding and with a foreign accent, tell someone else to take Crane away. He tries to move, but the pain in his head and his still-jumbled mind conspire against him, and he drops into absolute unconsciousness.

--

He groans, and would have picked himself up, had he been lying down. As it was, he seemed to be leaning heavily against chains, and all the blood had rushed to his feet, leaving him light-headed.

"Good morning, Doctor. How are we feeling?"

The same voice from last night! But without his glasses things were left blurry, like someone smudges the edges of everything, and detail was impossible.

"I would suppose you are in need of these." Cool, callused hands placed thin-framed metal glasses meticulously on his nose, and then everything focused.

One thing could be said for the man: he ever went anywhere unprepared. Dressed all in black, with armor and weapons, he certainly cut an imposing figure. With a body the god Apollo would have envied, and eyes with emotion Crane himself saw in the mirror everyday, formidable was this man's forte.

His hair was silver-blonde, straight, and cut to his high cheekbones. His eyes were much darker, like the grey of storm clouds; and his skin was alabaster pale, even more so under the jet-black of his sleeveless shirt. His leather pants stretched skin-tight, and his leather boots gleamed at his knees. The only adornments he wore were jet-black, spiked vambraces, signatures of the League of Shadows, and a leather belt with silver buckle. All in all, he was a man's man for his personality, and a woman's man for his beauty. If Crane hadn't been so damned tired, he would have laughed.

"Better?" The man asked. Crane broke down, and just giggled, quietly, and insanely.

The man gave a small smile. "My appearance amuses you?" Crane stopped giggling, but the crazy grin never left his face.

Fiery numbness on one cheek, and those cold grey eyes inches away from his. Crane stopped grinning long enough to gasp inwardly. He could taste the man's breath on his lips. "My name," breathed the man, "is Freyr Archis, Crane." Hard, cold grey eyes bore into his. "I am part of the League of Shadows. You would do well to remember that." Strong slender fingers released their grip on his chin, and those beautiful hard eyes backed away. "Now, I see that you're too…disorderly…to be of service, at the moment. I will have a physician see if they can straighten out your warped brain. But either way…you're going to tell me what I want to know." Freyr's fathomless grey eyes bored into Crane's. Something tightened in the back of his mind, but he was too preoccupied to notice. Freyr turned his back on Crane, and Crane quietly, desperately willed those eyes to look back at him, but to no avail. Freyr's dark form sauntered away into the darkness.

--

_Crane runs down dark streets, chased by screams and fueled by terror. He trips, and sprawls heavily onto the wet asphalt. Something sinister laughs, and he feels blood running down his back. If there are wounds, they are numbed from shock, and if something sits on his back, it must be a ghost._

"_Who are you?"_

I am you. Relinquish everything to me, and I'll let go of you.

"_But I don't have anything to give."_

You have more than the rest of them._ Inmates from Arkham stagger in streams from the alleyways, bloody and vengeful. _They want their freedom back. They want revenge of you for what you gave them.

_"But—" _

Silence! Give yourself over to me, and I will save you.

_The thing on his back shifts, and now he can feel ten piercing wounds that drown the fear in a scarlet haze. His vision begins fading to black, and the inmates draw nearer._

_One of them readies a crowbar to throw at his head, and he flinches._

_Panicking, he accedes desperately, and the thing's claws leave his back, and no more does the blood trickle. He can't tell what the inmates see, but they don't stop running for as far as he can see._

_For the first time in the last twenty-four hours, he feels whole again, and terrified of it._

--

The next morning, Freyr releases him from the chains, and lets him stand on his own two feet. This takes a little time, because his feet have lost feeling from suspension, but after a while he feels well enough to walk.

True to his word, Freyr brings a physician to attempt to rectify the havoc the fear toxin has wreaked upon Crane's mind. Not surprisingly, Crane is diagnosed as irreversibly insane, which brings a dark, furious cloud over Freyr's face. Noting this, the physician promptly asserts that he can do nothing for him, and makes his escape.

"So." Those hard eyes are inches away from Crane's face again, and secretly he takes masochistic pleasure in their gaze. This time, though it is a near miss, he refrains from laughing hysterically. "You may be of use anyway, dear doctor, despite some…difficulties." Freyr smiled a wicked smile, and Crane found himself hoping something would happen, if only to break the tension that slowly built in him. But alas, Freyr turned away, and the only consolation he had was that he would not be chained up again.

He thought at first that because of the chains, the rest of his surroundings would be as stark and colorless as the metal they were made of. But to Crane's surprise, the room seemed almost normal, like a game room in someone's basement, although half the games this neighbor played were of the painful, bloody kind.

The carpet was plain beige, with a pool table at one end and a bar at the other. In between, there were two pairs of shackles top and bottom on each wall, a Roman crucifix in one corner, and, in a deceptively mild leather chest, an array of torturous weapons. Crane shivered, an unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Do you like my private guest room?" Freyr had not left yet, and Crane noted this with mixed feelings. His League of Shadows status commanded respect, his beauty commanded lust, but his personality only seemed to be a cold dark hole. What could _it _command? Thinking on this, Crane smiled a small, introspective smile, but quickly wiped it away, hoping Freyr hadn't noticed.

"What, amused at my expense again?" Those slender fingers resumed their grip on Crane's chin, and those eyes bored into his again. "I might have to show you just how your amusement can be a disadvantage." Wondering what Freyr was compensating for by saying this just made it impossible, and Crane burst out in a peal of his strange laughter. Not amused, Freyr struck him across the face, hoping to bring some sense into him. But that was as hard as putting toothpaste back into the tube, and Freyr conceded defeat, this once, out of necessity.

"Come up to the street with me," he commanded, and, trailing behind in a fit of insane amusement, Crane followed.

The morning struck Crane's eyes like a sledgehammer. Vivid colors, even in the Narrows, assaulted his eyes in riotous spectrums, like they were tumultuously rejoicing in a cloud of drugs. Never had he noticed the vibrancy of the silver of the clouded sky, the midnight black of a doorway, the neon scarlet of a street sign. In the daylight, Freyr seemed even godlier with his alabaster skin practically glowing. Crane marveled at how he had never noticed the brightness before.

Freyr motioned Crane to follow, and on the roof of their building, in the distance, he could see a blackened shape reminiscent of a mansion. Various construction machines cluttered around it like bees around a hive, and it seemed to waver as if in a heat wave. Shaking his head to try and clear it, Crane didn't notice Freyr's small smile.

"In a few weeks, at the rate they're going the entire building will be back on its feet with the rest of the city. Then they'll have a party to celebrate, just like they always do, which means another Bruce Wayne gala. When that gala comes, I'll have a use for you."

**Author's Note **

Yes, after weeks of nothing, I _finally_ have this chapter up. Honestly, I meant to have it done like three weeks ago but I didn't have a suitable ending. But, it's here now, and I make this deadline for myself: Each chapter will be finished and uploaded every other Sunday. Anyway, thank you to all who have been reading (and reviewing) (**Blodeuedd**, **Lieutenant Sparkles**, and **mestupgcscreamer**) and my sincere apologies. A sort-of preview for next chapter, if you will.

_The party does indeed take place. Something interesting will happen between Freyr and Crane. The Batman makes a surprise appearance?_

PS: I have trouble switching between tenses because I'm weird like that. Any constructive criticism is always appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3: Black Tie White Noise

**Caveat: **This fanfiction involves S&M (sadistic/masochistic) themes, descriptions of wounds and blood, and homosexual behaviour. So, if you are queasy, homophobic or just not interested, this chapter is probably not for you. Otherwise, thank you for reading and enjoy.

Chapter 3: Black Tie White Noise 

_And watching lovers part, I feel you smiling_

_What glass splinters lie so deep in your mind_

_To tear out from your eyes_

_With a word to stiffen brooding lies_

But I'll only watch you leave me further behind 

-- "The Chauffeur," Duran Duran

Water beat on his back like tiny hammers, striking sense into his depraved mind. The water was almost scalding hot, and the bathroom was surprisingly bright opposed to the rest of Freyr's house.

The inside seemed almost normal, excepting the basement. The walls were a grayed shade of white, peeling at the edges, but the furniture was comfortable and well worn like someone's favorite shoes, though many modern touches, like a computer, had been added.

For the past few weeks, the routine was often the same: wake up, undergo an analysis and catch a few scattered crumbs (but then he didn't have much appetite anyway), and take a walk through town, veiled by whatever disguise fit best. Mostly it was to the Narrows, but occasionally they'd stroll through the city, and Wayne Tower would gleam in the distance like a temple of steel and glass. During these outings, Freyr always seemed tense and hypersensitive to his surroundings. It didn't come as a surprise to Crane that Freyr kept all his things clean and in meticulous order. In fact, Freyr often displayed the tendencies of an obsessive-compulsive person, and Crane wondered if he noticed that he was this clean, or if it was ingrained so deeply that he did it without thinking. Oh, how he longed to analyze Freyr… But then, he knew from experience, that old habits die hard.

He twisted the shower knob to 'off' and stepped out of the shower, grabbing a threadbare white towel from the rack on the wall.

He rubbed the fog from the mirror and stared into eyes the color of the Arctic sky in summer. Lately, the rings underneath his eyes had darkened and now seemed ubiquitous, giving him a perpetually haunted look. Before the Bat-man, he would have scoffed at such an unkempt look. Now…Now, he just chuckled mirthlessly. Still as tall and wraithlike as before, even more so if that was possible, with weeks on little food. He traced the Tazer burn-scars that that Dawes woman had left, and grimaced. On anyone but himself, he would have taken pleasure in the pain and fear, but with personal experience, it only evinced the awful memory. He shuddered, toweled his hair, and put on his clothes.

Freyr had taken him to see the progress of the new Wayne Manor a few days before. It looked almost finished, only the small details and bits of the roof left, and every brick seemed to be in the same place as before. The workers must have been paid well and then some to have this done in such a short time. Bruce Wayne had been busy.

Freyr was right when he said that a party would be held. After the attack on the Narrows, everything had gone full force: the search for the escaped convicts, Crane at the top of the list, and all damage control had begun to rebuild all that was lost. For a corrupt city, nothing much stopped it from working. Now the celebration would begin tonight at eight, and Crane would attend, though many League of Shadows members would be there as well. Freyr would go, but in disguise, and he needed Crane to go as a spy. The fact that Crane was both an escaped criminal and clinically insane seemed not to matter; apparently Freyr didn't expect Crane's face to be well known. Crane assented only because he had no choice, and besides, it might be fun.

Outside Freyr waited in the gloaming, the sitting room full of changing shadows. Through the window, the sun burned bloody.

"Well, you actually turn out rather dashing in a suit. A tux would never suit you, though. Pinstripes become you," Freyr greeted him half-mockingly. It was true enough: a cobalt that was almost black brought out Crane's eyes, and the ivory in the pinstripes of the suit accentuated the off-white shirt. The tie and shoes were simply midnight-black, and made, respectively, of fine silk and leather. All in all, Crane _did_ look rather sharp, almost like before the Bat-man incident. It also amused him that, because of being so clean and meticulous, Freyr also had an acute sense of style.

Freyr patiently inspected Crane from the chair in which he was seated. "Yes, you turn out well. No changes need be made." The combination of the fading light and Freyr's back being turned to the sun made it impossible for Crane to tell what he wore. He could only see the strong, graceful slope of Freyr's shoulders, and his hair, spiky and disheveled.

The sun sank over the rim of the city's towers, and Freyr stood fluidly.

"Time to go."

--

The rain lashed wildly against the glass, and neon city lights flashed like dragon fire through the night. Crane's head throbbed in pain and anxiety, the black leather of the car twining with the night to form a strange halo around the city. His headache had begun shortly after he had stepped into the car.

He sat alone in the backseat of a limousine that Freyr had miraculously procured to take Crane to the city. Like most of Freyr's things, the entirety of it was coloured in black, except for the chrome accents. It may have been dark, but no one could say it wasn't classy: elegance and grace were two of the things Freyr dealt best with, aside from pain.

Freyr rode with the rest of the League of Shadows members who followed his command, but he trusted Crane not to misbehave, it seems, or why else would he be alone?

The window to the driver was stark and black, and if the driver could hear his sharp knock, he didn't deign to heed it. He opened the bottle of champagne to try to calm his nerves, and not too long after, they arrived.

The first thing Crane noticed was that no one seemed to take overt notice of him. If anyone here cared about one bespectacled man among many more interesting people, no one showed it. He managed to make it to the door without incident, and then he was blinded.

Everything seemed to be made of gold here, of silk and velvet and brocade. Everyone was dressed in black, from the lowest upperclassmen to CEO of Wayne Enterprises himself, and their wives glittered in diamonds and pearls and gems he had no name for.

He grabbed a glass from a passing tray and drained it, nervous and giddy. He thought he caught sight of Bruce Wayne in the distance, but as soon as he noticed the face, it vanished. But since dark hair and a nice smile weren't uncommon here, he let it go, straining for a stretch of peaceful thought. At certain times, he thought he noticed a few unsmiling, guarded faces that could only be the League of Shadows, and started searching for Freyr, but he was nowhere to be found.

Time passed quickly in the bright lights and unending flow of alcohol. By the time the clock struck midnight, Crane felt more than a little drunk, but the lightheadedness and ease helped with the nervousness so he stopped caring, and just stood in a corner, absorbing the sounds.

"…And the police say that they found more of the Arkham inmates, but there was still no sign…"

Crane started, but if his name was ever mentioned in that conversation, he didn't hear it. Through hyperfocused sight, he saw Bruce Wayne ascend to the band's stage and take the mic graciously from the singer's pale hand. Tapping a wineglass, he was so reminiscent of that disastrous night that Crane smiled. But it got the crowd quiet, and if they thought the same thing he did, they kept quiet and smiled blandly.

"I'm sure you all know the story of my father, and the generations of family who lived in the house they built before the, ahem, prodigal son destroyed it." A pained look crossed his face, as the crowd winced in their minds, but the true secret wasn't something they'd understand: after all, no one really believed R'as al Ghul and his dark ninjas were more than a myth. The crowd was made too much of rational business people and socialites to believe a fanciful tale, when a drunk billionaire playboy burning down his mansion was much more plausible and cruelly amusing.

"But I am proud to say that no more harm will befall this house, just as I would like to think the harm that will befall Gotham will be lessened." Bruce gave a pointed stare at the crowd, scanning it, and Crane chuckled quietly. That sharp gaze passed over him briefly, and the laugh turned to ash, and a small amount of panic welled up inside him. He breathed, calmly, and assumed his cold exterior again, waiting for the appropriate time to leave.

"You may resume partying," Bruce finished, and with another pointed glance at the crowd, fixed this time, he descended from the stage, and the band commenced with a lively tune.

Gasping for breath in front of the mirror, Crane splashed water over his face to cool his raging emotion and rising panic. He wetted his bangs, sweeping them to the side, using a simple motion to calm himself.

He stared intently at his reflection, stroking each strand of hair into place. He remembered an earlier time when he did the same thing, but that episode ended so much more terribly.

_He tucked his bangs back by his ears, cold expression intent on the best appearance. It wouldn't do for a date to be ruined by appearances. He gave a small smile, amused at his concern, and stalked formally back to the side of his date._

_The woman, Stephanie Trombley, had a similar polite expression on her professional face as he sat across from her. Her hair was elbow-length, straight, and tied into a bun, pretty for a date, formal for a meeting. She was also a psychologist, and very good at her trade, though her paleness came not from lack of sun, but from heritage. She glowed in a dark-red dress, knee-length, which appreciated her bronze hair and hazel eyes. Her only adornment was a gold star on a similarly simple chain, and a bracelet of wooden beads._

"_Welcome back, Jonathan. I had thought you lost," she quipped with a polite smile. Their dinner arrived, and they ate small amounts of exotic fish, and passed on dessert. Outside, the rain drizzled down just enough to require umbrellas, and Jonathan procured one from the inside of his black trenchcoat. She leaned on his arm, wrapped in a black pashmina, but still shivering._

_They walked aimlessly, speaking of their professions with heightened interest, trading secrets and stories. Crane had even begun to laugh with her when she explained about a particularly strange patient,_ _but the subject soon strayed to darker things. _

"_What's your greatest fear, Jonathan? I don't think I've ever seen you scared, at all."_

_He paused. He certainly wasn't scared often, but when he was…he didn't show it by his facial expressions. A dry chuckle in the back of his mind sent shivers down his spine. _

_"I'm not really scared of much," he stated, to try to cover up what she couldn't see. But she wasn't giving up. "Oh, come on, Jonathan, all people have fears, you and I both know that."_

_Shit. He could already tell he wouldn't win this argument. Could he even try?_

I could help you…we could even find out together…

_No, he thought. I'll do this alone. But he couldn't escape that dry chuckle, and instead of answering her, he looked down with a darkly mirthful gaze._

"_Dear Stephanie, the better question is, what is _your_ greatest fear? Should I pry it out of you?"_

_He felt the wolfish grin spread across his own face, and her screams were muffled in his coat jacket and the sound of storming rain._

Crane shuddered, recalling a terrible joy that he took quietly from Scarecrow's games. A dull ache had begun in his chest, spreading outward, and now he felt a little short of breath.

Collapsing to the floor, the pain spiraled out from his heart and stomach in waves that radiated infernal fire. His vision was tinted in crimson, and focused so hard on all the tiny details of the tiled walls that they too were swathed in that blaze. He backtracked furiously, seeking the source of the poison—for it could only be poison that afflicted him, because he had always had perfect health, except for the fear toxin—and found none. Unless…

The only thing that he could think of was the champagne in the limousine. Would Freyr go to such trouble, just to poison him? The answer, of course, was yes. That meticulous a person would have many more things planned than just that.

He tried to stand up, gripping the ledge with white knuckles, and managed. As he got to his feet, an unsmiling man strode through the door, leaving a sealed envelope on the counter, and exiting. Crane shakily opened the envelope, and read silently.

_My dear doctor, by this time you have noticed that I have slipped poison in your champagne. In order to assure that you will come back to me, I have used your life as ransom. At the bottom of this note is a temporary solution, but the poison is indeed lethal, albeit slow acting, so I suggest you follow my advice, and return._

He picked the vial from the envelope and drained the sip of liquid inside. He could almost feel it take action, and within a few moments he felt better.

Shredding the note and envelope and tossing the fragments in the trash, he left the bathroom little better than when he left, though slightly more informed.

It seemed that many of the partygoers had left, and now the League members were easier to spot, once one knew what to look for. By the stairs, Bruce Wayne and his butler were engaged in a quiet argument. Briefly Bruce's eyes met with Crane's again, and then Bruce ascended the stairwell.

By now, few of the original partygoers were left. As he took his leave of the mansion, many of the League members stared at him reproachfully; eyes cold and hard like Freyr's. Crane matched them stare for stare.

In the cold autumn night, a harvest moon hung clearly in the sky, huge and golden. The stairs down the hill were illuminated in soft light, and aside from him, no one descended them.

Since his limo driver was most likely ensconced in the mansion with the rest of the soldiers, he wandered down the hill into the city.

The neon lights burned his eyes, and everything was magnified, even the smells. He was overpowered often by the stench of garbage or the sickening smell of food. The very least he was thankful for was the warm overcoat he remembered to grab on his way out the door, since it was even colder in the city. Eventually he decided to take the train, as the sensory overload leaned towards unbearable and everything he saw was painted in garish colors.

The train still ran at this hour, because Gotham never slept. However, in his particular car he was alone, and content to stay that way. Gotham may not sleep, but he felt as though it would do him good. Wrapping his coat around him like a blanket, he drifted into a black slumber.

--

Woken abruptly by the calm voice announcing his stop, Crane refolded the coat's wings around him and stepped onto the platform. Feeling refreshed and even a little sobered, he made his way down to the street, where there was less neon afterglow than in the city and everything was damp from fog.

He opened the door to the Freyr's home, to silence and soft golden light. No one seemed to be home, but there was always the basement. With this thought, Crane neatly hung his coat and tie and continued downstairs.

The crack of a whip was unmistakable, and when he opened the door to the basement, Freyr was there waiting for him. His eyes glint brightly through his glasses, and while his shirt, tie, and jacket were in a heap over his shoes in the corner, his pants were perfectly creased.

"You were supposed to stay there," Freyr whispered dangerously.

Undaunted, Crane expressed the truth. "Everyone else was leaving or left. Now, what about this antidote?"

A peal of noise like a gunshot, and the whip lodged itself around Crane's neck. "I told you to stay there. But since I am in a more…playful mood…than usual, I won't lock you up. Instead…" He grinned mirthlessly, a dark light glittering in his stormy eyes. He procured the syringe of antidote, uncoiled the whip from Crane's neck, and brought it slashing down across his chest. Blood rose up from the wound, beading in iridescent crimson rivers down the skin visible through Crane's torn shirt and blazer.

"Take it off."

Visibly cringing at the pain, Crane shrugged out of his jacket and tore off his useless shirt, buttons dropping like pins to the floor. By now his hands were speckled with blood, and the scarlet rivulets marred his skin like letters in an ancient tongue.

Freyr reveled in the blood, and took one of Crane's hands to fiercely lick it from his index finger. Through the pain, a resonant response to this action has Crane between agony and ecstasy. Freyr stuck him with the syringe, and injected all of it into Crane's system, making him lightheaded as well as pleasured and pained.

Freyr pushed Crane back so his back is at the wall, and swiftly kneed him. Blood welled from his lips, and without hesitation, Freyr kissed him hard, savoring the blood and the taste of Crane's lips.

Regaining his senses, Crane quickly pushed him down to the floor, gasping above Freyr while he tried to claw out from the pain of his broken rib. Freyr grinned and pulled him down so that he could roll over onto Crane, this time being the one pinning. He lowered his mouth to Crane's ears, whispering, "The pool table is the best place for this."

Crane nodded carefully, too far gone to think about the pain, and Freyr pulled him up onto the table, kissing him hard and fumbling with their zippers.

**Author's Note**

Yes, terribly sorry for the huge delay, but I just don't write that quickly. Especially since this chapter ended up as seven pages on Word. Wow. So, thank you to all those who have been patient, and also many thanks to **ImaPseudonym** for the much appreciated help when I mistook Once and Future King for a Tolstoy novel. Oh dear. (And on a similar note, I know that Tazers don't scar, but I couldn't figure out how else to put that section without that idea, so I fiddled with reality a bit. My apologies.) Anyway, it occurred to me that I couldn't very well have previews of chapters when I don't write them in advance. So, no previews, and no deadlines. God, what a terrible writer, haha. But, on a lighter note, I'm hoping to make some art for this story (I have a weird sketch of Freyr and that's about it for the moment) but none have been done quite yet, though I have quite a few ideas. If anyone is interested, check up at http/kagerou-chan. and once again, thank you all so very much. ;)


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